Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (3 page)

Deftly, impersonally, hard fingers probed Midnight’s silk-clad thighs and plunged beneath the waistband of her loose-fitting trousers. Her breath caught when one hand eased lower, tracing her flat, tense belly.

Catching a ragged breath, she struggled to remember some of the more pungent expressions she had learned at that little waterside tavern near the wharfs back in Macao. “Eee, what yer bloody doing to me?” she blustered, twisting wildly. “Take yer bleedin’ ‘ands off ‘r me!”

“Cocky little bantam,” her captor muttered. “But you’ll find I’m no easy cull.” His hands hose to tug at the silk mask covering her face. Frowning, he searched for some knot to remove it.

“Ooooow!
‘hurt me, yer did!” She made herself go completely limp. Her breath wedged in her throat as she felt the heat of his thighs, all hard, corded muscle locked against her own. Dimly she was aware of a mingling of scents—of spicy soap, the floral odor of a woman’s perfume, and the salty tang of sweat.

She had never been so close to a man wearing so little before, never felt every ridge of rib and thigh.

Anthony…

Midnight’s eyes filled with tears.

Her captor frowned. “Germaine! Bring the candle, damn it!”

No time,
Midnight thought wildly. Fear slammed through her.
Forget him, unless you wish to spend the next five years of your life dodging rats in a squalid English prison!

At that moment her grim-faced captor eased the silk belt from his dressing gown.

Midnight saw his intention. “I ain’t got nothin’ of yers, mister, ‘onest I don’t! Only one bleedin’ ‘andkerchief.” She schooled her voice to a low whine. “Just one paltry bit o’ silk. No call to truss a fellow up like a bleedin’ chicken for a bit o’ nonsense like that!”

“You’ll spend five years at Newgate for that nonsense, you beggar! Or maybe it’ll be transportation for you.”

Transportation to New South Wales? What hope would her father have then?

With a gasp she let her knees go completely slack until she slid toward the floor, a dead weight in his arms.

“Get up, damn it! You’ll not escape me.”

The earl cursed as his silk-clad captive twisted and dropped between his legs, kicking wildly. And then, with one well-aimed thrust at his manhood, Midnight drove him to his knees.

As he bent over in pain, Midnight sprinted toward the open window and slipped out onto the roof.

Before her the rising moon cast a silver nimbus around the dark spires of St. Paul’s.

Beautiful
, she thought dimly.

And unless she was very careful, it could be the last thing she ever saw.

~ ~ ~

Angry and unsettled, the usually immaculate Earl of Morland raced down to the end of the yard. Even as he watched, a slim figure eased past a chimney and disappeared down the far slope of the roof.

Smothering a curse, Morland leaped the low wooden fence and plunged down the narrow alley behind the townhouse. Then he stopped, spellbound as a small shadow moved toward the edge of the roof.

In silence the slender figure inched forward. His arms swayed like the slow, graceful sweep of wings. The movements were impossibly beautiful, Morland thought. Something tugged at the back of his mind, some connection he knew he should be making.

But fear and brandy and sex had numbed his usually acute senses, so that all he could think of was that small, dark shape perched so perilously at the ridge of the roof.

A gust of wind swept up from the street, tossing gravel and leaves in Morland’s face.

Above in the darkness the slender arms floated out, carving elegant swirls against the smoky sky.

The little thief was well trained indeed, each movement almost Asian in its grace. And he might just make it across to safety, Morland thought, feeling a surge of reluctant admiration.

Without warning a clay tile burst free, clattering over the roof and exploding to powder on the cobblestones sixty feet below.

Damn, the little fool would end up shattered like that tile if he wasn’t careful!

Atop the roof the slim shadow eased to a crouch. With one fluid movement he jumped.

Morland watched, his heart in his throat, as the shadow sailed over the street and plummeted onto a facing pediment. There the figure hung, fifty feet above the pound, while his slim legs dug into the stone face, vainly seeking a foothold.

“Hold on! There’s a ledge to your left!” the earl shouted.

The small feet began to kick, rocking back and forth until they gained enough height to snag the edge of the narrow stone shelf.

For the first time Morland breathed freely. He looked down, frowning at the scratches his nails had left on his palms. What in the devil was wrong with him? He should be pursuing the whelp, not applauding his escape!

After all, it had been a long time since Anthony Langford, Lord Morland, second son of the now deceased sixth Duke of Morland, had felt any real concern for anyone or anything.

Even for himself.

And he wasn’t about to start now, the azure-eyed peer thought grimly.

This was strictly business, for the little miscreant was nimble as a cat and would be
perfect
for his plans. All Morland had to do was track him back to his den.

But when the earl turned, only shadows marked the rooftops. Nothing moved amid the chimneys that rose in cold spikes against the moon.

His thief was gone.

Morland slowly walked back up the street.

He still couldn’t believe he’d lost the urchin. Deep in thought, he paced up the steps toward Germaine’s townhouse.

His hands were on the polished brass knocker when he heard a low chuckle at his back.

“Can my eyes be right? Isn’t that a friend of yours, my sweet?”

Frowning, Morland spun about. He broke into a smile as he saw his old friend. Viscount Ravenhurst, standing at the foot of the steps.

The ex-naval officer’s dark brows rose in a questioning slant. “What, not going to ask us in?”

Morland made a great business of eyeing his friend, then turned his keen gaze on the slender lad in black breeches and cloak at Ravenhurst’s side. “Not, I think, until I’ve met your friend.”

With a tinkle of laughter, the viscount’s companion doffed his tricorn hat and made Morland an elaborate bow. “Indeed. Have you forgotten me so soon? We met on the marsh by moonlight.”

Morland’s brow furrowed. There was definitely something familiar about that voice…

“You
have
forgotten!”

Morland’s eyes widened.
“Tess?
Is that you? By all that’s holy, Ravenhurst, are you mad? You let her racket about London like this? She’s—she’s wearing breeches!”

The tall ex-naval officer merely smiled.
“Let
her? Since when have I had a say in anything the hoyden does? She is a rare and stubborn female, this wife of mine.” His cool lapis eyes softened. “I find I would have it no other way.”

Morland dragged his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Damnation, he had
work
to do! Not that Ravenhurst would know that, for Morland’s latest mission was a well-kept secret. His diplomatic mission involved a plan to influence the Emperor of China to look favorably on contacts with England. Two recent efforts to establish relations with the Celestial Kingdom had failed abjectly when the British envoys refused to perform the degrading homage of prone kneeling. As a result, trade and all diplomatic contact remained at a standstill.

The thriving textile mills of Britain needed trade above all things. But first the Emperor of China had to be approached and persuaded, and the Earl of Morland had a singular plan for accomplishing that.

He frowned as he realized that Tess was studying the townhouse intently. “Is it true then? Do you house your mistress here, Tony?”

Morland went absolutely still. He seemed to have trouble finding his next breath. “Well, er, that is to say—”

“Have you mirrors on the ceilings? I’ve always imagined that mirrors were
de rigueur
in a place like this.”

Morland made a strangled sound that might have been a curse or a groan.

From the floor above them came the crack of a door and a muffled female voice. Morland felt sweat break out on his forehead. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. You both must be chilled from your walk.”

The viscountess swept her auburn hair over her shoulder. “Bah! London life is deucedly confining! And I did give up running with the gentlemen, you know. A woman must have
some
pleasures, after all.”

Her husband smiled faintly. “A woman
does
have some pleasures. And she enjoys them very much, as I recall.”

The viscountess flushed slightly. “Besides
those,
my love.”

Morland cleared his throat. At that moment a querulous voice echoed down the staircase. “Tony? Are you there?”

Tess’s eyes widened. “Is that Germaine? Might I speak with her? Perhaps she could tell me—”

Ravenhurst bit down a laugh and caught his wife about the shoulders. “I’m afraid it is time we were going, my love.”

“But—”

“We’ve plagued Tony long enough.” The viscount turned his wife about and steered her toward the street.

She sighed loudly. “Very well. I can see when I’m outgunned and outmaneuvered. But I still don’t see why—”

“Then I shall have to explain it to you. Later.” The viscount’s eyes darkened. He ran his finger gently across her cheek.

“Hmmmmm.
Yes, I should like that, I think.” Tess turned and smiled at Morland. “Give my regards to Germaine, won’t you? And don’t overtax yourself.”

The earl frowned, feeling as if he’d just been knocked down by a runaway hackney.

Viscount Ravenhurst slanted his friend a sympathetic look. “Never mind, Tony. You’ll get used to it. I have given up fighting her. Call me besotted,” he added with a very satisfied smile.

The pair walked off, arguing happily, and Morland ran his hand through his disordered hair. What else could possibly go wrong?

He soon found out.

Germaine met him at the stairs, her green eyes glittering. “The little wretch got away, I see. Well, are you going to stand there daydreaming all night or come up to bed?”

Morland found himself thinking of the slim figure whom he’d pinned to the wall. Yes, there was definitely something odd about the little cutpurse, something he still could not put his finger on.

“
Tony
? Are you listening to me?”

Her arms were akimbo and her tone had become shrill, he noted. “I rather think I must be off, my dear.”

“At this time of night? You’ve another mistress, that’s what it is! How dare you? How bloody
dare
you!”

A hail of angry words followed Morland to the foyer. A second later, he heard a thunderous crash.

It was the scandalous print of the pasha and the six harem girls, he decided stoically. Germaine had smashed the frame three times already.

He closed the door carefully behind him, savoring the cold, clean air that swept his face.

Yes, the luscious Germaine had
definitely
begun to cloy, he decided as he hailed a hackney and made for home.

~ ~ ~

Four blocks away, a nondescript carriage waited in the shadows while a small figure swathed in a black cloak darted across the cobblestones and jumped inside.

Immediately the carriage resumed its progress down the quiet street.

Closing her eyes, the cloaked occupant drew her first steady breath of the evening.

Too close. Each time it grows more dangerous.

Midnight’s slim white fingers trembled, stripping away her silken mask to reveal creamy cheeks and high, arched brows the color of a raven’s wing. Clear violet eyes assessed the line of blood trickling down her fingers. She must have cut herself when she’d jumped the street.